Those Who Wander
by tlyxor1
Summary: The term 'life after death' takes on a whole new meaning for Eleanor Potter when she finds herself reborn as the eldest daughter of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, into a world where she is defined by her gender, heritage, and social status. It is perhaps fortunate that the 'Girl Who Lived' has always been quite talented at defying expectations. 10th Walker AU, OOC. Aragorn/fem!HP
1. Chapter 1: The Prancing Pony

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Summary:** The term 'life after death' takes on a whole new meaning for Eleanor Potter when she finds herself reborn as the eldest daughter of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, into a world where she is defined by her gender, heritage, and social status. It is perhaps fortunate that the 'Girl Who Lived' has always been quite talented at defying expectations. 10th Walker AU, OOC. Aragorn/Eleanor (fem!HP).

 **Rating:** M for language, violence, character death, and adult themes.

 **Author:** tlyxor1.

 **Those Who Wander**

 **Chapter One: The Prancing Pony**

With a relieved exhale, and a cautious glance over her shoulder, Eleanor reaches the gates of Bree as the sun begins it's descent over the western horizon. It's a small, unassuming village that she's frequented sporadically over the years, and to the gate-keeper, Harry, she is no stranger. He greets her warily all the same, however, and Eleanor can't say she appreciates his caution.

"What brings you to Bree, Lady Raven?"

'Lady Raven' is a pseudonym she's acquired among the Race of Men, inspired by the long, sable hair she always keeps bound in a braid. She probably appreciates the accompanying legend more than she ought to, but she's certainly not about to share her name and family history to all and sundry. After all, not only does she enjoy her anonymity more than she would the notoriety, but there are also others whose safety depends on her discretion. She's certainly not about to sacrifice their (relative) wellbeing for anything so trivial..

"I'm meeting an old friend," she answers, "Is everything well?"

"As well as can be expected," Harry answers, "Bree's seen some odd visitors of late. Very strange folk."

Eleanor frowns, perturbed. She's spent the last year or so in Gondor, contributing to the protection of her homeland, and it is discomforting to discover how far the shadow of Mordor has stretched in the meantime. Bree is a peaceful place, with no standing army to speak of, and the only defence between them and Sauron's servants are the Dúnedain Rangers. They're an exceptional if insular lot, baptised by fire and all the more extraordinary for it, but their numbers are few, and despite their best efforts, they can't be everywhere at once.

"There's trouble down South. Have you had a lot of travellers from that way?"

"Too many," Harry confirms, "Trying to change how we do things 'round here. The locals won't have it, of course. Why fix what isn't broken, if you catch my meaning."

"Of course," Eleanor acknowledges. She tips him a silver for the entrance, and also for the conversation, and treads her way through the streets with a weary sigh. She's been on the move for weeks on end, and although she'll never admit it, it'll be nice to put her feet up. Even better, it'll be utterly glorious to sleep in an actual bed, and it is, perhaps, the only incentive that's kept her going the passed few days.

As Eleanor approaches the village centre, and in particular, an establishment called the Prancing Pony, the denizens of Bree give her a wide berth. Most are on their way home for the evening, or on their way to an inn for a pint of ale or nine, but all of them eye her with a familiar, all too unpleasant caution.

Evidently, The fabled welcome and hospitality of Bree has waned with the increasing threat from Mordor, with the tails of monsters on the road and the bleak, terrifying reality that is the growing number of missing and murdered locals. Eleanor can't hold it against them, admittedly, but it's a reception she's received constantly throughout her travels, and the perpetual mistrust is tiresome.

The only reception worse, in fact, are the suggestive leers, roaming hands, and the countless offers of coin for sex. She's got no idea what it is about her appearance that gives them the impression she's a prostitute, or remotely interested in their company besides, but it's neither funny nor flattering, and Eleanor usually makes it a point to ensure they know it. Violently, when necessary.

As such, as she approaches the open doors of the Prancing Pony, she scowls ferociously at the owner of one such leer, and stalks passed him into the noisy, crowded inn. Though the windows are open, it's still hot, with the combination of too many bodies and too much firelight, and it smells of smoke, stale ale, and the pervading stink of body odour. The patrons are in good spirits, however, and it's enough to (briefly) lift her unpleasant mood.

"Butterbur," she greets the frazzled, rotund innkeeper, "I'd like a man-sized single room for the night. Have you any available?"

"Indeed," Butterbur confirms, "You're in luck, Madam. It's the last I have available. Was that all you'd be wanting?"

"And some supper for the evening," Eleanor answers. They proceed with their transaction, and Eleanor follows him up to the room she's rented. Butterbur babbles all the while, and Eleanor tries hard to tune him out. She mostly fails, but in a lull between his chatter, she capitalises on his conversational mood. "Has Gandalf the Grey been by recently, by any chance?"

"Nay," Butterbur declines, "Seems he's a popular sort tonight, though. I've had a hobbit from the Shire ask for him not an hour ago, would you believe it? I can't remember the last time the Shire folk have been by this way. A pleasant change though, I'd say; better than some others as of late."

Eleanor hums her acknowledgement, curious, but also concerned. She'd seen the old wizard only eight or so weeks earlier, on his way to Isengard. She'd been passing through the Gap of Rohan, on her way to Edoras from Osgiliath, and they'd shared a campfire for the night. It had been a pleasant respite from her usual isolation, but during their typical exchange of information, he'd asked her to meet him in Bree, post haste. He'd not expected to be held up with Saruman, but in the event of his absence, he'd also shared with her the names of a few others he intended to meet at the Prancing Pony. As they'd both observed, it had grown increasingly dangerous for travellers throughout Middle Earth, and as such, it was the wizard's hope that with or without him, she would accompany his very kind, very naive, very defenceless acquaintances on the road to Rivendell.

Quite frankly, Eleanor was and is not particularly enthused by the prospect of travelling with a company of strangers, vouched for by Gandalf or no. He'd intimated that there were happenings in the Last Homely House he wanted her involved in, however, and if anything about her had remained the same over the years, it was the fact that she'd always been governed by her curiosity.

"What's his name?" Eleanor queries. Butterbur looks puzzled, and she clamps down on her irritation. She's short-tempered on the best of days, and this particular day is far from such. The innkeeper has done nothing to warrant her ire, however, and quite frankly, she's better than that. "The halfling?"

"UNderhill. Frodo Underhill, I believe."

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Eleanor's supper, held on a tray in the hands of a halfling by the name of Bob. He's a quiet, jovial fellow who hums as he sets down her meal, and Eleanor, despite her simmering irritation and bone deep travel fatigue, somehow finds it in herself to offer him a gracious smile. It's forced, and probably looks it, but it's the thought that counts, right?

"Thank you," she says, "It looks delicious."

Mercifully, Butterbur and Bob don't linger, and Eleanor closes the door behind them with a grateful sigh. In the quietude her host leaves behind, Eleanor haphazardly deposits her travelling pack, cloak, and boots near the archway that bisects the parlour and bedroom, and carefully spreads out her assortment of weapons along a nearby, empty sideboard. Included in the array is a sword designed by Eleanor herself, a thin, lightweight, relatively short sword, with a double-edged blade and a pointed tip. It's designed for slicing and stabbing alike, and it's become her best friend over the years. Also in her arsenal is a handful of throwing knives, a hunting bow (and the obligatory quiver of arrows), a dagger she hides in her boot, and a wand - _the_ wand - she's grown to hate. It's slender and polished, 13 inches long, and messily carved from elderberry wood.

On the surface, it is entirely innocuous, but no matter how hard Eleanor tries, she can't escape it, or the curse it represents. She's burned it to ashes, she's thrown it into a river, she's left it in a forest. Without fail, however, it returns to her within moments, whole and undamaged, and Eleanor has resigned herself to it's continued, unwelcome presence. She's not sure there's anything else she _can_ do.

In any case, because that way lies madness, it's not something she cares to dwell on. As such, she averts her gaze from the wand in question, and drops heavily into a chair at the table. She descends upon her supper with no small degree of enthusiasm, famished after her last few, gruelling days on the road.

The days in question were spent perpetually on the move, working hard to out pace the Ringwraiths inexplicably on her tail. As such, the most she's managed to eat are her 'just in case' rations of jerky, dried fruits, and more assorted nuts than she cares to really contemplate. In comparison, the spread of roast beef, buttery mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and a side of sliced fruits is heaven sent.

Eleanor savours every bite.

-!- -#-

After her meal, there is a moment wherein Eleanor seriously contemplates her bed, but in the end, her sense of obligation prevails. She's bone weary, and every inch of her aches, but nevertheless, she has work to do. As such, she dons her blades once more, holsters her wand, and adorns her boots and cloak with an inaudible, resigned sigh. her bed would have to wait.

Once attired and prepared for anything, Eleanor descends the inn's staircase, and enters the common area with a grimace she hides in the shadows of her hood. It still wreaks of unwashed, overheated bodies, smoke, and stale ale, but it's even louder than earlier, and even more crowded. She can see dwarves and men and halflings alike, and Eleanor hasn't the foggiest idea of where to find those whom she seeks.

Eleanor scans the room once more, sighs to herself, and approaches the only table that isn't crowded. It's tucked into the shadows, blessedly against an open window, and it's sole occupant smokes a pipe in the shadows of a cloak he, too, hasn't removed. It's a familiar sort of cloak, patterned in the darker shades of grey and brown and green, and it's almost enough to bring a smile to her face.

It seems she's found part of her quarry, and if the rest of the night turns out to be as effortlessly fruitful, mayhap she'll sleep well, indeed.

"May I sit?" She asks. He wordlessly gestures with a travel stained, callused hand for her to do so, and Eleanor does with a grateful sigh. "Thank you."

A barmaid passes by, and Eleanor exchanges a pint of ale for a few coppers. She can't stand the taste of it, but she's patronising an inn, and it'd certainly look strange if she didn't have a drink (or a pipe) in hand.

As the man turns his attention to something else in the room, Eleanor studies his face. She can't make out much, but his eyes are a bright, mercurial contrast against the shadows formed by his hood, framed by dark eyebrows and angular cheekbones. He catches her studying him, and Eleanor turns away, abashed.

"What brings you to Bree, Madam?" His voice is soft, yet resonant, and is flavoured with an accent that rings familiar in Eleanor's ears. He's not from Bree, but there's a touch of Gondor there, and something else she can't quite discern.

"I'm to meet some people," she replies, "And yourself?"

"The same." He puffs away at his pipe for a time, and casts his attention back towards something else in the bar. She follows the direction of his gaze to a pair of halflings nearer to the front doors, nursing ales and speaking (not so) covertly with the innkeeper. He turns his focus back to her, and Eleanor drums her fingers against the table-top, restless. "It's rare that I encounter a lady travelling alone."

"And it's rare that I encounter Rangers of the Dúnedin outside of the wilds," Eleanor counters.

"We are not often received kindly."

Eleanor's smile is mirthless, "People have a tendency to fear what they don't understand."

"That is… unfortunately accurate."

"I learned from experience," she acknowledges glibly. In the shadows of his cloak, Eleanor catches the glimpse of a smile. She doesn't bother trying to suppress her own. "Do you have a name then, Ranger?"

"They know me as Strider in these parts. And what is yours, may I ask?"

Strider is one of the people Gandalf had hoped to meet in Bree. She'd assumed it was him, with the Dúnedain Rangers' cloak and what not, but Eleanor has actually learned caution over the years, and she's not about to act rashly when there is so much at stake.

"They call me Raven. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Strider. Gandalf speaks highly of you."

"You know him well?"

"As well as anyone else, I imagine," Eleanor shrugs, "He asked me to meet him here, but it seems he was delayed."

"You are not concerned?"

Eleanor frowns, briefly considers Strider's question, and shakes her head. Gandalf's a resourceful fellow, and Saruman is in charge of the White Council. She's sure the Grey Wizard is just fine. "Not yet."

As they converse, and exchange what information they've each learned as of late, there's a commotion at the bar. It culminates in a brown haired, blue eyed halfling on the tabletops, singing about cows and moons and runaway spoons. Most of the halfling's audience appreciates the impromptu show immensely, but Strider's entire body is as taut as a bow string, and Eleanor's stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of her knees, or perhaps her throat. SHe's not quite sure.

"That's not Underhill, is it?"

"It is," Strider grimly confirms.

Eleanor bows her head, and can't decide if she ought to laugh or cry. It's going to be a long journey to Rivendell.

 **Author's Note:** Quotes in italics have been copied directly from 'Fellowship of the Ring'. The novel, not the film.

I'll be following canon very closely for a while, but I hope you enjoy. Until next time, -t.


	2. Chapter 2: The Best Intentions

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Two: The Best Intentions**

In the midst of Frodo Underhill's encore, he disappears into thin air, and his audience doesn't take it well. They're disturbed and disgruntled and disinclined towards the slightest indication of magic (and anyone affiliated with such), and not even Butterbur's reassurances can settle them. It doesn't quite cause a mass exodus, but as Frodo Underhill appears in the shadows beside Strider, there is a very obvious decline in the revelry surrounding them.

"Well, why did you do that?" Strider addresses Underhill, " _Worse than anything your friends could have said. You have put your foot in it! Or should I say your finger_?"

As Strider and the Halfling converse, Eleanor drains her ale, rises to her feet, and meanders her way outside the Pony. It's grown late, the stars bright against the inky black of the night sky, and the street is disconcertingly empty. There are no drunks staggering home, or passed out in the street, and there is no sight of the unpleasant Breelander, Bill Ferny, or his unknown - likely foreign - companion.

Eleanor sighs wearily, and retreats back inside. A company of grumbling locals depart as she does so, and inside the Pony, a handful of patrons stumble upstairs in silence. Strider lingers, as does Underhill and the latter's two companions. They're quite absorbed in Underhill's conversation with Butterbur, and they don't notice as Eleanor approaches the cloaked ranger.

"I should expect trouble tonight," Eleanor informs him, "Bill Ferny is as unpleasant as he's ever been."

"You know him well?"

"I've bought a horse from him a time or two," Eleanor explains, grimacing, "I've yet to meet a more distasteful fellow from Bree."

"I shall be vigilant," Strider acquiesces. She smiles wryly, and As she does so, Butterbur finishes up his conversation with the halflings, and retreats towards the kitchen.

Meanwhile, UNderhill and companions retreat towards their rented room, and in silence, Strider and Eleanor follow.

To Eleanor and Strider's shared chagrin, The halflings are completely unaware of their combined presence, and it's not until they're all inside the rented parlour, the hearth fire stoked back to life, that the two of them are noticed by the door.

" _Hallo. Who are you, and what do you want_?"

" _I am called Strider, and although he may have forgotten it, your friend promised to have a quiet talk with me."_

Strider had removed the hood of his cloak at some point since their departure from the common area, and Eleanor takes the opportunity to study him in the firelight. Although as a descendant of Númenor, there's no telling how old he actually is without asking, Strider is older than she'd expected, with flecks of grey hair at his temples, and the slightest of wrinkles around his eyes. He's travel-worn, dirt-stained and scruffy, his facial hair at that midway point between stubble and beard, but for all of that, he's still handsome. It's distracting.

"And you, Miss?"

It's the third halfling who asks, blonde, and blue eyed, and entirely guileless. She's beginning to understand why Gandalf had been so intent on acquiring an escort to Imladris. It's a wonder they'd gotten this far.

"I'm known as Raven in these parts," Eleanor answers, "I am a colleague of Strider's, and of a particularly wise friend of yours, I dare say."

Regarding her apparent relationship with him, Strider doesn't call her out on her lie. It's even true, from a certain point of view, because they've both committed themselves to the same calling: To aid in the eradication of evil in Middle Earth, by whatever means necessary.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss." It's the halfling who'd initially addressed them that acknowledges her first. He bows, her hand in his, and it is absurd, but he is utterly adorable. "Peregrin Took at your service."

"Charmed, Master Took," Eleanor doesn't curtsy - she's left such graces behind in Gondor - though it's a near thing. "If you don't mind, I was told to expect only two of you."

"We happened upon Pip and Merry on the road."

"Then you must be Samwise Gamgee," Eleanor concludes.

"I am. You can call me Sam, though. Everyone does."

"it's a pleasure to meet you, Sam. As I mentioned, I go by Raven in these parts. Or Eleanor, if you'd prefer."

As Eleanor busies herself with introductions, Strider and Frodo proceed with their own conversation. She listens to them in silence, as Strider makes a terrible impression on Frodo, as the Halfling reacts accordingly, and as they then settle in to discuss the actual reason they've all gathered there.

" _I have quick ears_ ," Strider says, lowering his voice, " _And though I cannot disappear, I have hunted many wild and wary things, and I can usually avoid being seen if I wish. Now, I was behind the hedge this evening, on the road west of Bree, when four hobbits came out of the Downlands. I need not repeat all that they said to Old Bombadil or to one another; but one thing interested me. 'Please remember,' said one of them 'That the name Baggins must not be mentioned. I am Mr Underhill, if a name must be given.' That interested me so much that I followed them here. I slipped over the gate just behind them. Maybe Mr Baggins has an honest reason for leaving his name behind, but if so, I should advise him and his friends to be more careful."_

" _I don't see what interest my name has for anyone in Bree, and I have still to learn why it interests you_ ," Frodo says angrily. He looks distinctly cornered, and Eleanor wonders at Strider's intentions.

It seems as though Strider means to scare some caution into them. It's warranted, if somewhat cruel, but as things are at present, the hobbits' collective naïvety would get them all killed..

In any case, Eleanor is certain he means them no harm - Gandalf is an excellent character reference, and his description of Strider has turned out to be remarkably detailed, and just as accurate. That said, he hasn't exactly made any strides towards obtaining the hobbits' trust.

No pun intended, of course.

" _Mr Strider may have an honest reason for spying and eavesdropping, but if so, I should advise him to explain it!"_

Strider laughs. He looks positively delighted by Frodo's response. "Well answered, but the explanation is simple. I was looking for a hobbit called Frodo Baggins. I wanted to find him quickly. I had learned that he was carrying out of the Shire - well - a secret that concerned me and my friends."

Frodo and Sam react to the perceived threat, and Eleanor rolls her eyes, long-suffering. Clearly, she ought not to have expected Strider to explain their presence well.

"Men, honestly," she mumbles, scathing, and Strider glances at her askance. She looks back, unimpressed, and then opts to address the hobbits. "My name is Raven. This is Strider, and we were asked by Gandalf the Grey to meet him here, and with or without him, accompany Frodo Baggins and friends to Rivendell, post haste. Furthermore, Strider was tasked with ensuring your safe arrival in Bree, hence his presence on the West Road. I apologise for any misunderstandings he and I may have caused. I assure you, we mean you no harm, and you can be sure of our discretion."

To the hobbits' credit, they don't let down their guard. It's exceedingly easy to tell a person that one is trustworthy. It's another thing entirely to mean it, or to prove it, and all things considered, it's quite a tall order. In fact, Eleanor hasn't got a clue of how to go about convincing Baggins and Company of their good intentions, and Strider, who is leant back in his seat and smoking his pipe, doesn't have any solutions to offer, either. In fact, he seems quite content to let her take the lead in this mess, and if he isn't amused by her plight, she's an orc's dinner.

Just as she comes to this conclusion, however, Strider proves her wrong. He leans forward, his pipe hanging from travel-stained fingers, and speaks intently, lowly, and urgently, "As Lady Raven has said, you may trust in our discretion. We will take better care of this secret than you do, and hear you me, care is needed. Watch every shadow. Black horseman have passed through Bree. On Monday, one came down the Greenway, they say, and another appeared later, coming up the Greenway from the South."

"I've seen them," Eleanor confirms, "I took to the wilds to escape their attention. Ghastly creatures."

They're reminiscent of dementors from her life as Eleanor Potter, Girl Who Lived, though somehow simultaneously less and more terrible for their lack of ability to devour souls. As though to make up for the seeming deficiency, their horrible, bone-chilling aura of menace and deadly intent is more potent than even a horde of dementors had been able to conjure, and Eleanor fears them like nothing else she's encountered in this life..

As Strider's conversation continues with the halflings, she approaches the window, and stares intently at the street beyond. The hobbit's room is barely elevated above street level, but it's enough of a vantage point to show that the night has grown dark, and the street below remains empty.

It's disconcerting. More so is the heaviness in the air; as though the very heavens are waiting for something to shake up the quiet that's fallen over Bree.

It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and Eleanor palms the strained muscles there, anxious. Her nerves are shot, screaming at her to get the hell out of dodge, and if the Ringwraiths aren't nearby, then they will be very soon.

The very thought fills her with an unavoidable, stomach-churning dread..

" _You will have to leave the open road after tonight; for the horsemen will watch it night and day. You may escape from Bree, and be allowed to go forward while the sun is up, but you won't go far. They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. DO you wish for them to find you? They are terrible."_

As the hobbits do, Eleanor glances at Strider. He looks tortured, pained by a recollection he could likely do without, though she is unsurprised to see it. He speaks of the Ringwraiths with the familiarity and confidence of one who has already encountered them, and no one comes out of such an experience unscathed. Perhaps not physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually? That's another matter entirely…

Without conscious thought, Eleanor crosses the length of the parlour, bypassing the halflings, and takes Strider's hands in her own. She has no idea what she's doing - this man is essentially a stranger, for goodness' sake - but to be tormented by the memories dredged up by monsters such as the Ringwraiths? She'd not let him endure it alone. No one deserves that misery.

As Eleanor crouches in front of him, Strider's gaze meets hers, silver and striking. She looks back, unfaltering and undaunted by his attention. As she waits, it's almost visible, the effort it takes for the ranger to wrench himself from the ghosts behind his eyes. He manages though, silently and near expressionlessly, and once he does, he smiles, small and grateful, and meant just for her.

It leaves her breathless, and Eleanor retreats back to the window in order to compose herself. Strider is physically attractive, certainly, but it's neither the time, nor the place, for matters of the heart (or bedroom, if she's being honest with herself). Disregarding the fact that he still remains a stranger to her, they both have far more important things to concern themselves with.

Perhaps later…

'But then,' she reflects as she glances at the man in question, and considers all that Gandalf's shared about him. At present, he's caught up in further conversation with the hobbits, but Strider's undoubtedly aware of her scrutiny. 'perhaps not.'

With a weary sigh, Eleanor turns her gaze back to the view beyond the window, crosses her arms over her chest, and listens silently as Frodo and Sam discuss whether or not Strider and 'Lady Raven' ought to escort them to Rivendell.

It doesn't seem promising, and Eleanor's begun to resign herself to the fact that she and Strider are likely going to have to watch over the halflings from a distance. It would make things infinitely more difficult than strictly necessary, but need's must, and neither of them are about to leave Frodo Baggins unguarded for anything. Not only would Gandalf have their heads on spikes for even considering it, but the burden Frodo carries is far too dangerous to leave unprotected; particularly since the hobbits can't defend themselves..

As Eleanor mentally plans out how she and Strider would go about such a task, and simultaneously laments the absence of Gandalf, Strider concedes to sharing some of his back story with the hobbits.

He's just about to do so, in fact, when they're all startled by a loud, resounding knock on the parlour door.

"A little late to be receiving guests," Eleanor observes quietly. She melts into the shadows as she does so, Strider doing the same on the other side of the room, and she warily feels for the hilt of one of her knives. As she does so, she tries to take comfort in the fact enemies would likely not knock, but she is only moderately successful. "I hope it isn't trouble."

Mercifully, it isn't.


	3. Chapter 3: The Lone Ranger

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Three: The Lone Ranger**

Eleanor's known Barliman Butterbur for a while now, and she's known just as long that he's a rather absent-minded fellow. Reliable in the sense that he's an honourable, honest man, but completely unreliable in the sense that he's got a memory like a sieve, and he'd probably lose his head if it wasn't attached to his shoulders. As such, it's no surprise that he's forgotten to deliver a message to the Shire from Gandalf, but nevertheless, it's still irritating. More so, in fact, when she realises how much hassle they could have avoided if Frodo had received the letter when actually intended and not moments before the inferred message - to trust a pair by the name of Strider and Raven, respectively - - had become completely redundant.

There is no use brooding over it, in any case - there are far more important things to concern herself with, after all - but by the time the last of Frodo's travelling company returns, breathless and terrified, Eleanor is still rather sour.

In fact, her mood only deteriorates when Meriadoc Brandybuck shares his tale of terror, featuring Nob, one of Butterbur's hired help, sent out to find the wandering hobbit. They'd encountered a Black Rider, it seems, who'd attacked Brandybuck with something Strider calls the Black Breath. Eleanor's not experienced it herself, nor has she heard of it from anyone else, but it sounds ghastly, and in fact, the entire mess is all kinds of ominous. There are Black Riders in Bree, threatening the townsfolk and attacking unsuspecting visitors, they're after a halfling by the name of Baggins, and Eleanor has no doubt: The gates are being watched.

" _What are we to do_?" Frodo asks. He looks between Eleanor and Aragorn, entreating and afraid.

" _Stay here, and do not go to your rooms. They are sure to have found out which those are. The hobbit rooms have windows looking North and close to the ground. We will all remain together and bar this window and the door. But first, Nob and I will fetch your luggage."_

"I shall stay here, just in case," Eleanor resolves, and rattles off her room number to the ranger. He nods his acknowledgement, and he and Nob retreat from the parlour. Eleanor shuts the door behind them, props herself beside it, and listens absently as the hobbits update Brandybuck on the events of their dramatic evening. He listens silently, appropriately stoic given the circumstances, and he's still mulling over Gandalf's letter by the time Strider and Nob return.

Nob smiles at them all, cheerful and entirely inappropriate, given the circumstances. "Well Masters, I've ruffled up the clothes and put in a bolster down the middle of each bed. And I made a nice imitation of your head with a brown woollen mat, Mr Bag - Underhill, sir."

Frodo forces a smile. He's not at all lightened by Nob's good cheer, though who could blame him, honestly? He's being hunted by nine of the deadliest creatures Middle Earth has to offer, and that doesn't take into consideration the unpleasant attentions of Sauron, himself. It's enough to ruin anyone's day - Eleanor would know.

"Very lifelike," Pippin quips dryly.

"It needs only to last until dawn," Eleanor opines. "Until then, you'd best make yourselves comfortable."

Nob excuses himself to take his watch on the front doors, and Strider bars the parlour door behind him.

"You've a very fine bow," Strider compliments. He's braced against the door, head turned to face her, and Eleanor should step away.

She doesn't.

"It's served me well," Eleanor replies. It's a hunting bow, expertly crafted by a bowyer she'd once helped near Dale, and indeed, it's not let her down yet. "Thank you for retrieving my things."

"You need not thank me," Strider answers. He pushes himself off the door and traverses the length of the room, only to settle in an armchair by the window. There, he busies himself with a moderately sized piece of wood and a carving knife, and Eleanor sighs, inexplicably disappointed.

In silence, she pulls another padded armchair in front of the door, makes herself comfortable there, and then occupies herself with a stocktake of the contents of her travelling pack. As she does so, the hobbits hunker down for bed in the middle of the room, and it's not long until she and Strider's companionable silence is broken by a cacophony of loud, rumbling snores.

Eleanor glances at the slumbering hobbits, nonplused, but is diverted as Strider approaches her. His knife and carving project are nowhere in sight.

"Will you not rest, my Lady?"

"You can just call me Raven," she informs him, "Or Eleanor, if you'd prefer. And no, I fear I won't rest properly until we are far from here."

Admittedly, Eleanor is exhausted, but even if she were at all inclined to sleep while the Nine hunted a hobbit in her care, her sense of paranoia would never allow it. She'd learned long ago never to let her guard down when danger was nigh, and not even the presence of an experienced ranger - the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, no less - can curb such hard-earned instincts.

Strider reluctantly nods his acquiescence, draws up a chair to sit by her, and produces his carving knife and project once again. Eleanor watches him work for a time, curious despite herself, and then produces a knitting project from her travelling pack. It's something she does to keep herself busy on the road, a skill learned under the patient tutelage of Molly Weasley, a lifetime ago now, and one that's served her well over the years.

As Eleanor knits, and as Strider carves, they sit in an easy, companionable silence. Their shared, albeit separate, lifestyle guarantees long periods of quietude - if not complete isolation - and neither of them feel particularly inclined towards forcing conversation.

All the same, however, Eleanor is curious. Gandalf had mentioned Strider, of course, had explained the choice awaiting him in the weeks, months, years to come, had given vague details of his accomplishments to that point, and in some respects, he somehow seems larger than life. He's something out of a story, even: a king in exile, with an immense, terrible evil to overcome, and surrounded by a motley, unlikely group of companions. He'd been rather mischievous that evening, though no less vigilant for it, but now he carries himself with a quiet sort of dignity, and Eleanor can picture it. She barely knows him, and most of what she _does_ know is secondhand, but with his Númenórean features and confident carriage, she can see this man on the throne of Gondor, and it gives her hope.

"Is it true that you are Captain Thorongil of Gondor?"

Captain Thorongil is a legend in Gondor, a fearless, extraordinary leader, compatriot, and soldier. He's spoken of with awe and reverence, even, and if her brothers are anything to go by, he is everything Gondor's current military leaders aspire to be.

Strider's hands still, and he glances at her from the corner of his eyes. His expression is inscrutable. "I was; some years ago."

Despite the fact she's heard tales of Captain Thorongil for as long as she can remember, Eleanor doesn't swoon. The emotional trauma might be long gone, but she still has the memories of what it is like to be famous, and she wouldn't wish that misery on anyone. "You may go by another name, but you are still that same man, I would think."

Strider appears unfazed. "Perhaps."

"Did you enjoy your time in Gondor?"

Strider pauses to consider his answer. "I spent a great deal of time on the battlefield, but I spent my furlough in Minas Tirith. It was like nowhere else I'd known, but I remember it fondly."

"Did you ever visit Dol Amroth?"

"I did," Strider confirms, "I was a guest of Prince Imrahil's before I departed. Is Dol Amroth your home?"

Eleanor blinks, surprised. "Gandalf didn't tell you?"

"It seems he didn't," Strider answers wryly, "Do you care to enlighten me, my Lady?"

"I am Eleanor, daughter of Imrahil."

The only indication of Strider's surprise is the arch of one dark eyebrow, and Eleanor wonders what it must be like to be so unflappable. "And how fairs your father?"

"As well as can be expected, last I heard. Defending against Mordor has not been easy."

Prince Imrahil has been on the frontline for years. As the Lord of Dol Amroth, the Head of the House of the Silver Swan, and as one of the most experienced commanders in Gondor's Army, he has no other option. Even if he had, his own sense of honour and duty would compel him to serve as long as he is able and/or needed, and Eleanor's younger brothers have followed in their father's footsteps.

In some respects, so too has she.

"No, it has not been," Strider solemnly concurs. He glances briefly at Frodo, who frowns and stirs restlessly in his sleep, and adds, "But perhaps we will not have to for much longer."

Eleanor follows his gaze, hums her acknowledgement, and turns her attention towards the fire. As she does so, she sighs wearily. SHe's devoted her adult life to combating the darkness that plagues Middle Earth, and it is a grueling, thankless task. It's also draining, mentally, physically, emotionally, and it's easy to forget that, yes, she's made a difference. Maybe not a difference of the immense, world-changing sort, but the smaller, individual kind, and mostly, knowing that is enough.

Sometimes, it's not.

"We can only hope."

-!- -#-

Dawn brings with it a series of discouraging and discomforting setbacks. The hobbits' rooms have been raided, without even a sound for the trouble, and Bree has been released of all it's horses and riding ponies. It means their travelling company must make do on foot, and although no particular issue for Eleanor or Strider, the hobbits are disheartened.

As the hobbits seek comfort in the breakfast provided by Butterbur, and as Strider works at resolving their equine issue, Eleanor accompanies Nob around Bree, determined to stock up on what resources she is able. She takes the opportunity to sell a knitted blanket she'd completed during her travels, and returns to the Prancing Pony with a travel pack stocked full of dried fruits, jerky, fresh fruits and bread to last them a few days, clean bandages, and a couple sets of freshly laundered clothes.

"It looks as though the entire town has gathered to see us off," Eleanor observes, her expression grim. The attention is unpleasant and undesirable, given the nature of Frodo's cargo, and Eleanor's skin prickles with their scrutiny.

"Quite," Strider agrees mildly. "We'd best leave by the main road. No use having the townsfolk and their curiosity follow us, otherwise."

"I'll bring up the rear," she reluctantly concedes.

They'd be sitting ducks on the road, but Eleanor doesn't argue. The Ringwraiths won't make an appearance until after dark, and it's not yet noon. They'll have time to lose sight of Bree and all of it's nosy inhabitants, to disappear into the wilds in turn, and realistically, it's the only reasonable option they have.

Nevertheless, it rankles, and Eleanor doesn't like it in the slightest.

It would be easy to cast disillusionment spells on them all and be done with it, but unfortunately, life isn't so easy. Her magic carries a presence that can be sensed and tracked by individuals sensitive to such things, and she knows, intrinsically, that the Ringwraiths are very much capable of just that. They're too much like dementors not to be, and constructs of Sauron, besides.

"We'd best be leaving," Strider informs the halflings, "Gather your things."

They do so with minimal complaint, and Frodo leads the farewells with polite words between himself and Butterbur. Eleanor watches the crowds for trouble, Strider does the same, and it's not long before they're on their way. A confrontation with Bill Ferny is quick to follow, and Eleanor sighs to herself.

It's an ominous start to what is sure to be a long, arduous journey.


	4. Chapter 4: The Road to Weathertop

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Four: The Road to Weathertop**

All things considered, it's not a wholly unpleasant sojourn to Weathertop. They've been graced with bright, sunny days, made cool by the wind that blows down from the mountains, and for the most part, the scenery is beautiful. The halflings, too, aren't necessarily terrible charges, which is something of a relief. They're unassuming and inquisitive, and they talk perhaps more than Eleanor or Strider would prefer, but they're sensible, not prone to causing trouble for their guides, and very much conscious of the danger they'd all like to avoid.

Strider, too, is a pleasant travel companion. He doesn't doubt her skills, doesn't undermine her ability to protect herself or the halflings, leaves her to her own devices when she wanders off to forage, or hunt, or to ensure they haven't been followed by any unsavoury sorts. It's a refreshing change from the Rangers of Gondor she'd last travelled alongside, and in some respects, Eleanor's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

All the while, it takes them six days to catch sight of Weathertop, and by that point, Eleanor's more or less had her fill of curious hobbits and their unending questions. She's grown too accustomed to her isolation, perhaps, because she's ready to be alone again, to rest and recuperate after a week in other people's company. She's tired, physically and mentally drained, and the constant state of awareness is an exhaustion Eleanor can feel in her bones.

"We'll make camp here," Strider declares.

They're in the shadow of Weathertop, near a stream, and sheltered from the elements by a few, fat alder trees. It's bleak here, wildlife scarce, and sentient habitation is long gone from these lands. It's treacherous, too - their allies aren't the only individuals aware of the sightline advantages posed by the old watchtower - but it would be reckless to proceed after dark, and there is a lot more at stake than their own lives.

With that in mind, Eleanor deposits her pack on the most level section of ground she can find, stretches out her bedroll, and makes herself comfortable on top of it. Sam builds up a small fire, and sets to work preparing something moderately tasteful for supper.

Leant against one of the alder trees, Strider smokes his pipe, gaze on the dark outline of Weathertop. It's unsettlingly quiet here, the night broken only by the calls of a few lonely birds, and Eleanor holds her sword close, far too on edge to properly rest.

"Have you ever been to Rivendell, Lady Raven?" Sam enquires.

"I have not," Eleanor answers, "My home is South, in Gondor, and I generally prefer to remain close. Bree is perhaps the northernmost settlement I've visited."

"Is it common for women to learn how to fight, in Gondor?"

"No," Eleanor laughs, and adds with a self-deprecating smile, "It's considered unseemly, in fact. My mother despairs for my marriage prospects."

"Is that something you would like?" Merry wonders, "Marriage?"

Eleanor is noncommittal. "Perhaps."

They don't pry much beyond that, and return to the topic of Rivendell. Sam's excited to meet the notoriously - at least in recent years - reclusive elves, and he speaks animatedly about what he's heard regarding the Last Homely House, and it's inhabitants therein. Merry and Pippin listen raptly, but Frodo and Strider are both distracted, and despite the hot food and the crackling fire, their melancholy is contagious.

It's a solemn group, therefore, that seeks rest upon their bedrolls, and even as they set a watch throughout the night, the sleep they hope for is hard to come by.

Eleanor gives up shortly passed midnight, and settles herself beside Strider. She's bundled up in her blanket, her sword close at hand, and the silence between them is broken only by the hobbits' rumbling snores, and the sound of the crackling fire.

That is, until…

"Who taught you to wield a sword?" Strider asks her, curious. There is no judgement in his gaze.

"My father," Eleanor answers, He told me - and everyone who criticised us - that should Gondor ever fall, his daughter would not fall with her. Not without a fight. He taught my sister, too, but she doesn't care much for it."

Her sister, Lothíriel, is sophisticated, ladylike, and elegant in ways Eleanor will never be, though no less fierce because of it. She revels in court intrigue, in politics, in wordplay that Eleanor has never had the patience for, and she is their father's greatest asset in the Court of Gondor.

Eleanor doesn't pretend to understand her sister's interest in politics, just as Lothíriel doesn't pretend to understand Eleanor's comfort with a sword, shield, or lance. Nevertheless, they are sisters, love each other as such, and most days, Eleanor misses her fiercely.

She wonders, sometimes, if Lothíriel misses her just as much.

"That sounds like him," Strider acknowledges. There's a reminiscent smile on his face, "I'd never met a man of Gondor more intrigued by Rohan. It took me two months to realise it wasn't Rohan, but rather, Rohan's shield maidens that interested him."

"What was it, specifically?" Eleanor asks, mirthful.

"I believe it was their ability to destroy a man without trying," Strider answers, tone droll, "But then, I never asked for the particulars."

Eleanor contains her humour to an irrepressible grin, and she shakes her head, unable too find an appropriate response to a comment like that. She admires her father, for his open mind and for the unequivocal faith he has in his daughters, but she can't quite imagine a young Prince Imrahil drawn to Rohan's historically tall, blonde, and blue-eyed shield maidens for their martial ability.

At least, not _solely_ for that reason.

"What were your thoughts? Regarding the shield maidens?"

Strider smokes his pipe, his expression thoughtful. "I think it is a shame so few of them remain."

"The sensibilities of Gondor have reached the Court of Rohan in that regard," Eleanor explains with a grimace of displeasure.

"Rohan will remember their history, in time," Strider says, "I firmly believe we've not yet seen the last of Rohan's shield maidens."

"I hope you are right," Eleanor answers solemnly.

Aragorn smiles, and his eyes crinkle in the corners. He doesn't acknowledge her response verbally, however, and instead smokes his pipe with the careless ease of someone who has been smoking for a long, long time. Eleanor doesn't smoke, personally - she'd lived through too many of Hermione Granger's lectures regarding the perils of smoking, addiction, and lung cancer to ever feel inclined to - but the smell of Strider's tobacco is comforting and familiar.

It takes her a while to realise it's the same sort of tobacco the eldest of her brothers, Elphir, smokes, and Eleanor is struck with a sudden, poignant feeling of homesickness. She'd just been there, travelling and fighting alongside her cousin, Faramir, but she'd not taken the opportunity to visit Dol Amroth, and far from home, Eleanor wishes she had.

When would she lay eyes upon her homeland, once more? And given the ongoing conflict Gondor continues to face against the armies of Mordor, what would be left when she does so?

 **Author's Note:** Apologies for the delay. There was supposed to be a second part to this chapter - the Weathertop Scene - but it didn't want to be written. Hope you've enjoyed, in any case. Thanks for reading. Until next time, -t.


	5. Chapter 5: The Watchtower of Amon Sul

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Five: The Watchtower of Amon Sul**

Wen they reach Weathertop, it's to find scorched earth, evidence of a fight of some sort, and a message from Gandalf. It's short, and barely comforting besides, but the river stone the Grey Wizard had left for them fairly sings with his magic, and if nothing else, they now know he'd passed through three days prior.

If fortune is on their side, then they would encounter him in Rivendell, but until then, they would need to focus on themselves. It's abundantly obvious, after all, that the enemy is near - perhaps behind them, perhaps ahead - and only Eleanor and Aragorn stand between those enemies and Frodo, and in particular, the trinket the halfling carries.

Eleanor, with a deep sense of foreboding, produces the Elder Wand - and the accompanying holster - from the depths of her pack, straps it to her forearm, and once more casts her gaze over the lowlands surrounding Weathertop. It's as bleak as it's ever been, the wildlife scarce and diminished as winter approaches, and a fresh sense of darkness blankets everything. It's familiar - the same oily taint that radiates off the Ringwraiths - and it's evident to Eleanor that Gandalf had encountered them as he'd passed through.

The question is: Are they still close by, or had they followed the Grey Wizard elsewhere?

As Aragorn throws himself to the ground, and pulls Frodo with him, and as Eleanor and Merry follow a split-second later, she supposes she has her answer.

" _What is it_?" Merry asks in a whisper.

" _I do not know, but I fear the worst_ ," Aragorn answers grimly.

They creep up to the edge of the watchtower, and study the open lands below. In the gloom, there are five figures creeping towards them from two different directions, but for the hobbits, it's difficult to gather any more details in the fading light.

Eleanor and Aragorn, however, can decipher a few more details. They're on horses, and they're all clad in black, and they are not remotely subtle in their approach.

" _Yes_ ," Aragorn says grimly, " _The enemy is here._ "

With haste, they creep down the northern slope, but even as they do, Eleanor has the dreadful feeling that they've run out of time. The sun has begun to set, storm clouds have rolled in from the East, and they can't possibly out run the Black Riders with the little daylight they have left.

Soon, night would be upon them, and the Ringwraiths would have the advantage then…

They settle in a dell found by Sam and Pippin. It's been recently abandoned - by rangers, Aragorn says - and raided by booted strangers, as well, But it's closed in, safe from the elements, and stocked with firewood. It's also their only option, in the sense that any avenue of escape is guaranteed to be watched by the enemy - but as an ominous chill sets in with nightfall, it's not a pleasant one.

As the cold sets into her bones, Eleanor curls up by the fire, wrapped up in her cloak, and watches the flames as they dance merrily in front of her. The hobbits are freezing, wrapped in blankets and huddled as close to the campfire as they dared, but Aragorn is unbothered by the cold. He wears his cloak, but he sits a little apart from the rest of them, content to smoke his pipe as they wile away the night. He tells stories to keep the hobbits occupied though, histories and legends of days long gone, and of the good and evil deeds therein. The last he tells is the story of Beren and Lúthien, forbearers of the Kings of Númenor, and the hobbits are enthralled. It's a children's story in Gondor though, and Eleanor's heard it countless times before. She listens all the same, filled with a sense of melancholy she can't explain, and she is oddly wistful when Aragorn draws the story to an end.

As Merry and Sam discover the encroaching Black Riders, however, the feeling doesn't last. Instead, a sense of urgency floods through her system, and Eleanor unholsters her wand, grips it convulsively, and waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Her patience - such as it is - is rewarded with the appearance of the darkly cloaked, darkly shadowed figures that appear around them, near imperceptible against the night sky. As they do, as the dread the Black Riders radiate washes over Eleanor, Aragorn, and their unassuming charges, Eleanor funnels her magic, focuses her intent, and conjures up a fireball she launches towards the Ringwraiths.

Gratifyingly, they scatter with loud, ear-piercing screeches, but they don't retreat. Of course they don't: Nothing is ever so easy, but at the very least, they hesitate. They circle them, watch warily, feign strikes as Eleanor and Aragorn guard the hobbits.

So focused are they on the Ringwraiths, though, that they don't notice Frodo's struggle until - in one horrifying moment - he's donned the ring, and the riders are bearing down on them, shrieking their triumph for all the world to hear.

Eleanor throws herself in front of Frodo as Strider goes for the fire. She raises her wand, desperate and panicked, and shouts, "Expecto patronum!"

Simultaneously, the Ringwraith's black blade pierces her forearm, and her pained cry is drowned out by the Ringwraith's agonised screech. Despite the fact they're not dementors, her patronus - an elegant, silver swan - causes them enough pain and disorientation for Strider to set them all alight by their cloaks. SHe'd not expected it - not even dared to hope, in truth - but nonetheless, the Black Riders flee into the night, and for the moment, they are safe.

"You are hurt," Sam frets over her arm, and Eleanor attempts a smile. She falls miserably short. As Frodo comes to, as though pulled from a trance, and as Merry and Pippin gather their wits, she struggles to think through the bone-chilling cold travelling up and down her arm. It's an entirely unfamiliar sort of pain, and although she valiantly tries to hide it from her charges, she's afraid.

"I'll be fine. Would you please boil some water for me? Where is Strider?"

"I am here," Strider says, appearing from the gloom, "I had thought to track their route, but they are… Disorganised. Are you well, Lady Raven?"

"One of their blades caught me," she says grimly, and tilts her head towards the discarded knife in question. Strider approaches it, and holds it to the firelight. It dissolves before their startled eyes, and the ranger's expression is grim.

" _Few now have the skill in healing to match such evil weapons. But I will do what I can._ "

"I thank you, Strider." Eleanor offers him a tremulous smile. She's sure he can see right through her, but he makes no attempt to offer her false hope.

As Aragorn does what he can to counteract the poison of the Morgul blade, as the hobbits do what they can to help, Eleanor dreams of Dol Amroth, of her home and her family there. In her mind's eye, she pictures Gondor in the Spring, fields bursting with life and colour, cobblestone streets the same. She imagines it in a peacetime she's never known, her people safe and sound and free from fear, and loss, and despair.

It's a beautiful dream. As with all dreams, however, it doesn't last.

When she comes to, it's daybreak, and her companions are busy divvying up their food stores between themselves. It leaves the pony free of any extraneous burden, but Eleanor doesn't realise the purpose behind their actions until Strider approaches her.

"That pony cannot possibly carry my weight," she protests. Her voice is feeble though, and she hardly believes herself. "I can walk."

"You must conserve your strength," Strider counters, "I will carry your pack and your weapons. And we will not leave you behind, my Lady."

She shuts her mouth on her insistence to do just that, and lets Strider haul her off the ground. It's rather embarrassing, and makes her feel weak, but in truth, she's grateful for the assist. Her whole body feels like a lead weight, and she probably couldn't manage the task on her own.

Merry and Pippin are quick to pack up her bedroll, but Eleanor's focus is on Strider, and also on the pony he approaches at a steady clip. He sets her on the pony's back with ease, but before he can step away from her, Eleanor grabs hold of his cloak in her good hand. She meets his gaze, grey and flecked with silver, and she says quietly, "Whatever happens, I beg of you, do not let me become one of those monsters."

Strider's expression is solemn. He understands exactly what she's asking of him, and although it's unfair of her to make that request, he doesn't protest. "You have my word."

Eleanor studies him for another moment, nods her acknowledgement, and then releases his cloak. And then she collapses onto the pony, and she is lost to dreams - delirium, perhaps - once more.


	6. Chapter 6: The Flight to the Ford

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Six: The Flight to the Ford**

The days pass in an uneventful blur of cheerless scenery. They camp at night, and Eleanor sleeps in fitful bursts. Her dreams are fraught with darkness, wherein she is haunted - or perhaps 'hunted' is a more apt term - by the Nine Riders, by Sauron, by the enemies who would stop at nothing to see her people defeated, enslaved, or dead.

Meanwhile, her waking hours are spent watching the scenery, or her downtrodden companions as they trudge along, and the guilt weighs heavy on her heart. None of them would hear any word of her walking, however, and so she stays on the pony for hours at a time, makes sure to reward it well at every rest stop they manage, sings it songs in Sindarin, feeds it sugar cubes. With her good hand, she brushes him down each night, ensures his shoes are secure and the like, debates names with Sam and Merry and Pippin when they all feel so inclined.

And through it all, Strider tirelessly toils on. He forages for food, keeps watch at night, tends to her wound at every rest stop. SHe's not sure when he sleeps - if he sleeps at all - but she grows to trust him throughout those days: Not just because he is a friend of Gandalf's, and not just because he is the heir to the throne of Gondor. She grows to trust him because he is gentle, and patient, and kind, because he is steadfast, because he treats her as an equal despite her injury, despite the delirium that washes over her when the pain is at it's sharpest, because despite the fact she's the liability she never wanted to be again, he doesn't leave her behind.

As they pass through the ruins of some long ago settlement, Frodo asks about their surroundings, but Eleanor doesn't pay attention to Strider's answer, or to the conversation that follows. She knows enough - that it had been abandoned long ago, and yet the taint of darkness still remains - and she doesn't need or care to know more.

Instead, she studies her injured arm. The wound is closed, but her mobility is shot. The bone-chilling cold - not-quite numbness - is omnipresent, though occasionally interspersed with spikes of pain that she can feel from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. She's fevered, her body fighting the foreign poison invading her system, and it is an exhaustive, unending process.

Aragorn is confident Elrond can remove the shard, but they've over a week to go before they reach Imladris, and Eleanor is not confident she can hold against the Morgul poison for that long.

She is already so very tired.

" _Where did you learn such tales, if all the land is empty and forgetful?_ " Pippin asks. It's enough to draw Eleanor's interest, and she tunes into the conversation, intrigued. " _The birds and beasts do not tell tales of that sort._ "

" _The heirs of Elendil do not forget all things past,_ " Aragorn replies, " _And many more things than I can tell are remembered in Rivendell._ "

" _Have you often been to Rivendell?_ " Frodo queries. He's avoided Eleanor since Weathertop, guilty or angry or afraid - Eleanor doesn't know him well enough to tell - but he sticks close to Aragorn, and at least he's not determined to set aside the only person presently able to stand between him and all of their enemies.

" _I have_ ," Aragorn confirms, " _I dwelt there once, and still I return when I may. There my heart is, but it is not my fate to sit in peace, even in the fair house of Elrond._ "

Eleanor tips her head, curious despite herself. She's uncertain if it is only a turn of phrase, akin to the adage 'Home is where the heart is', but she would not be surprised to learn the ranger's heart already belonged to another.

Even as she considers the likelihood, however, Eleanor chides herself. She may be attracted to him, with his lean frame and striking eyes and gentle hands, but the matter of Strider's heart is no business of hers. Besides, all things considered, they both have far more important things to worry about, and that isn't likely to change anytime soon.

-!- -#-

It's nightfall, and they're huddled together for warmth. The autumn wind is frigid, blowing in rain or sea spray or both, and Eleanor shivers beneath her cloak. Her company is sad and silent, defeated by the day's arduous efforts, and not even Pippin can make an effort to lighten their collective spirits.

"Might you use your magic to light a fire, Lady Raven?" he enquires. It's the first mention of her magic since Weathertop, and it's not quite what she expects.

"Would that I could, Peregrin," Eleanor replies, "But to do so is to light a beacon for our pursuers. I would not risk it."

"I struggle to imagine anyone being out in this weather," Merry opines, "Even the enemy must feel such discomfort as soggy clothes, surely?"

"I've not had much opportunity to ask," Eleanor replies dryly. Her teeth are chattering though, so she's fairly sure she loses the effect she was aiming for, "But nonetheless, they can track the use of magic, and I would not have them descend upon us once more."

"How do they sense magic?" Pippin asks, unfailingly curious.

"Some beings are sensitive to magic, and to the traces magic leaves behind," Eleanor explains, "The nature of their curse provides the Riders with such sensitivity. I believe they are aware of it the same way they are of living things, but again, I've not cared to ask."

Eleanor closes her eyes to further questions, tired and cold and hurting. It's been another day of her body fighting against the Morgul Blade's intrusion, and this time, Strider hasn't been able to brew one of his athelas teas to clear her head, and bolster her reserves, and soothe the constant discomfort in her arm.

"I think I might try to sleep," she says, but despite her best efforts, sleep is hard to come by. The cold and wet has turned the persistent ache in her arm into a dull roar, and what little sleep she manages is fitful, and fraught with nightmares she forgets about as soon as she wakes.

The pain persists throughout the next day - also rain-drenched and dreary - but Strider is able to provide her with his magical tea that evening, and Eleanor's sleep isn't quite so troubled. It's a good thing, too, because the following morning, Strider discovers that they've travelled too far North, and their road requires that they backpedal South-East. The only issue is that their road comes to a ridge of high land, and - upon deciding to climb, rather than go around - Eleanor comes to the realisation that it will take all of the energy and the strength she possesses to make it to the top.

"If I start crying on the way up, please don't hold it against me," Eleanor says to Strider in an undertone. She's certain the climb ahead will be the most difficult part of their journey, thus far - Black Riders included - and she dreads to start it.

"I wonder if I might be the one who weeps," Strider answers. He looks completely bone-weary, and Eleanor realises belatedly that he isn't joking. She takes solace in their shared misery.

Nonetheless, they climb, and eventually, they reach the top without any tears shed. Eleanor collapses as soon as they do so, her arm a deadweight of icy agony at her side. She doesn't stir when the halflings discuss with Strider their concern for her state, for her injury and the possibility of healing in Rivendell, their confusion as to the cause of her continued suffering. She does, however, accept gratefully the steaming cup of athelas tea Strider offers her, and once consumed, opts out of dinner to instead sleep the sleep of the exhausted.

-!- -#-

The following day passes in high spirits. Sam regales them with a light-hearted poem over a lunch spent in the company of trolls turned to stone - a more benign, comical legacy of Bilbo Baggins' adventure to the Lonely Mountain - and the sun is sweet against their skin. Eleanor's vision fades in and out, though, dulls the colours around her, turns the edges of her world fuzzy and unclear, and it's hard to share in the hobbits' good cheer when her stomach is leaden with dread.

Eleanor doesn't share her misgivings, but something of her concern must show on her face, because that afternoon, Strider stays close to Eleanor and the (as yet) unnamed pony. Between long bouts of easy, companionable silence, they speak of inconsequential things - ranging misadventures, childhood shenanigans, preferred beverages of choice - and it isn't until the distant sound of horse hooves reaches their ears that their levity fades.

Their dread doesn't last, however. The rider turns out to be an elf, tall, and blonde, and ethereal in his beauty, and apparently an acquaintance of Strider's. They converse hastily, in rapid-fire Sindarin Eleanor only just follows - apparently, she only _thought_ herself fluent - and introductions are made just as quickly.

The elf turns out to be Glorfindel, who is a resident of the house of Elrond, and he brings with him unpleasant tidings. There are five riders on their tail, four in the wind, and despite the long day, they must continue onwards.

The very thought leaves Eleanor feeling drained. Her vision has clouded again, and she can feel a sense of darkness wash over her, and she's sure it's only pride that keeps her on her feet. She sways, though, and Aragorn grasps her shoulder with a concerned frown. He helps lower her to the ground, and Glorfindel studies her face with a grave expression.

"She took a morgul blade meant for Frodo _,_ " Aragorn explains in Sindarin, and he continues in the same language, "They surrounded us on Weathertop."

Eleanor doesn't take in the rest of Strider's explanation. Her mind drifts, her thoughts disjointed and jumbled - Dol Amroth, the pony, the Elder Wand - and it isn't until the pain and the bone-chilling cold down her arm fades slightly that she comes back to herself.

"Annan allen," she says to Glorfindel, whose hand rests over the entry wound on her forearm.

"You are very welcome, fair lady," Glorfindel replies in Westron. He helps her to her feet, and what ensues is a brief discussion regarding whom would ride on Glorfindel's steed. Frodo is a given, but Aragorn and Glorfindel insist Eleanor join him, which she adamantly refuses.

"My added weight would only slow them down," Eleanor reiterates, "I would not risk Frodo or the trinket he carries winding up in the enemies' hands. I will take the pony, as I have for the last two weeks, and pray that we reach Imladris ere the shard reaches my heart."

No one is remotely happy about it, but they haven't the time to argue further. Glorfindel leads them through the night, tireless and unfaltering, and it isn't until dawn that he lets them stop to rest. Strider, Sam, Pippin, and Merry are out as soon as their heads hit their bundled cloaks, but Eleanor is restless, her sleep fitful, and Frodo seems in a similar state. The ring, presumably, and Eleanor doesn't envy him in the slightest. She remembers Tom Riddle's locket, and she wouldn't relive that agony for all of the gold in the world.

Eventually, she gives up on any hope of sleep, and brews herself Strider's athelas tea. Combined with another dose of Glorfindel's magic, it helps to reinvigorate her, but even as she chit-chats quietly with the handsome elf, she wonders pessimistically how long the energy will last. Her magic, as it contends with the poison, eats up a lot of energy, consumes more nutrients than she's receiving, and she's usually drained by midday.

Hopefully, Rivendell isn't much further.

-!- -#-

It takes them another day and a half to reach the Ford of Bruinen.

It takes that long, also, for the Black Riders to catch up with them. Frodo is sent off ahead on Asfaloth, while behind, Glorfindel and Strider shepherd the rest of them along as they bring up the rear.

Eleanor, plagued by the compulsion to stop Frodo, to take the ring and flee with the Black Riders raises her wand to defend her companions, but they ride ahead - towards Frodo - and despite her efforts to deter them, her magic is sluggish beneath her skin, lethargic and unresponsive. The Morgul poison has taken it's toll, and she couldn't levitate a leaf, never mind protect her primary charge.

In this instance, however, it seems she doesn't have to. As the Black Riders attempt to cross the Loudwater to reach Frodo, stopped on the opposite bank, a rapid, rushing swell flows from upstream, and washes them away. Glorfindel, meanwhile, banishes the rest of them into the water in an elven tongue Eleanor doesn't understand. He is effervescent though, his entire body radiant with some inner light, and it is enough to banish away the darkness that has fallen over her sight once more.

"We are close," Aragorn tells her, and takes the pony's reigns to guide it across the river, "You will be healed soon, Lady Raven."

Eleanor smiles briefly. The cold has closed in on her chest, and darkness has fallen over her sight once more. SHe's not quite sure she believes him.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** I received the Sindarin translation of 'Thank you', 'Annon Allen' from the Elvish Dictionary. It's apparently the most recent translation, from 2018, and I don't want to argue with anyone about it. I like LOTR, but I don't love it that much.

I also forgot to mention last chapter: Any dialogue in Italics is quoted from the books. Thanks for reading, hope you've enjoyed. Until next time, -t.


	7. Chapter 7: The Last Homely House

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Seven: The Last Homely House**

Eleanor wakes suddenly, to an airy, brightly-lit room with exposed beams on the ceiling and gauzy curtains blowing in the wind. She's comfortable, on a feather mattress and beneath lightweight sheets, the sound of birdsong in the distance, and even further, the sound of rushing water. It's a tranquil, comfortable place - Imladris, Eleanor knows without a doubt - and she exhales, sleepily content.

Near the balcony, Gandalf idly smokes a pipe, gaze distant, mind a million miles away. Her sigh - or perhaps her minute shuffling - captures his attention though, and the Grey Wizard turns his gaze upon her. He smiles, crinkly-eyed and fond, and Eleanor returns it, glad to see her friend, safe and well.

"You're alive," she greets him.

"As are you," Gandalf parries, "Though for some time, we feared you would not be for much longer."

Eleanor blinks slowly. Her arm isn't cold anymore, nor does it hurt. Her mobility is back to normal, as well, if somewhat diminished by the lingering dregs of four days of unconsciousness. All that remains of her injury is a stitched wound on the underside of her forearm. It's presently wrapped up in linen bandages, but she recognises the familiar pull of stitches, and she idly wonders why they'd had to reopen it.

She doesn't ask though. She will in time, probably, but for the moment, there are other - more important - things on her mind. -

"How are the others? Are they well?"

"They are well," Gandalf assures her, "Whole, and hale, and very concerned for you. It seems you left quite the impression."

"What happened?" She asks, "Last I remember, we had just crossed the Loudwater."

Even then, the memory is dim. She remembers vaguely a short exchange with Strider, but it's distant - like a half-forgotten dream - and she's unsure it took place at all.

"You collapsed not long after," Gandalf explains, "As much as I could gather, your magic was fighting the poison, and it had drained you. On top of that, the poison was very close to your heart. You were rushed to Lord Elrond, who has spent the last four days healing you."

"Four days?" She echoes.

"Indeed," Gandalf confirms, "We came very close to losing you."

Unsure of what to say to that, Eleanor casts her gaze beyond the balcony. It looks onto an immaculately maintained garden, and despite the fact Middle Earth is already well into Autumn, the flowers are blooming. Roses, mostly, a vibrant array of red, orange, yellow, white and pink blooms, and Eleanor smiles again at the sight, content. Her mind wanders though, and her contentment doesn't last.

"What of Frodo's trinket?"

"It is safe, for now," Gandalf replies. He seems exhausted suddenly, and Eleanor frowns, concerned by the sight. "When you recover, we will hold a council to determine it's fate. You are expected to attend, along with a number of trusted allies. Until then, it will remain in Frodo's care."

"And at this council, will we learn why you were delayed? We thought to meet you at the Pony in Bree, but you did not show."

"You will," Gandalf confirms, "But to abate your curiosity, I will tell you this: The White Wizard has betrayed us. He has fallen, and is now in allegiance with the enemy."

Eleanor exhales. She's no stranger to betrayal - she'd experienced it often enough as Eleanor Potter - but it gets no easier to endure. A stab to the back, a sucker punch to the stomach; Either way, she's breathless with it, and momentarily speechless. She'd not known Saruman the White - had never met him, in fact - but she'd trusted him as a peer of Gandalf's, and it is still a disheartening blow to their efforts against Sauron.

"I'm sorry," she eventually manages, "I know he was your friend."

"It is the way of the world that friends come and go," Gandalf says. His voice is tinged with sadness, but he clears his throat, and adds quietly, "In any case, I worry for the future more than I grieve for myself."

"The future is something to fear," Eleanor concedes, "But there is still hope."

Gandalf smiles, knowing and mischievous. His eyes glimmer with it, and he agrees, "There is always hope."

Gandalf takes up his pipe once more, and Eleanor closes her eyes to tales of Merry and Pippin's hijinks in Rivendell, of their reunion with Bilbo Baggins, of their concern over Eleanor's wellbeing. He speaks of Strider, too, since recovered after too many days and nights without proper rest, and Eleanor listens to the stories with a contented smile on her face. She has no idea when they'd become friends, but her fondness for them is undeniable, and her heart hurts at the thought that they may soon have to part ways.

Although it is tempting to, Eleanor cannot languish in Imladris indefinitely. She is needed elsewhere, to do her part against the armies of Sauron - presumably, Gandalf and Strider have similar obligations - but until she must leave, her stay in Imladris would be a pleasant, welcome respite.

It's her last conscious thought before sleep claims her once again.

-!- -#-

When Eleanor wakes again, it is to the sight of an elleth hanging a dress over Gandalf's vacated chair. It's beautiful, a deep navy intricately embroidered with silver, with a form-fitting bodice and a floor-length skirt that would flow loosely around the legs. It rests atop a silver cloak that matches the silver slippers beneath the chair, and Eleanor struggles to imagine she could ever do the gown justice.

"Greetings," the elleth says to Eleanor in lightly accented Westron, "I am glad to see you well, my Lady. I am Aerin, and I am to serve as your handmaiden during your stay in Imladris."

Eleanor doesn't bat an eye. She's accustomed to handmaidens from her upbringing in Dol Amroth, and although she doesn't necessarily relish in their service, she doesn't dismiss them. SHe'd thought to once, and it had taken her father's intervention - and specifically, him pointing out that the wages her handmaidens earned were often used to provide for their families - to stay her hand.

"Well met, Aerin," Eleanor replies in Sindarin. Aerin looks immediately relieved by it, and the rest of their conversation continues in the same language. "My name is Eleanor, and I thank you for your assistance. Am I able to have a bath, by any chance?"

"Of course," Aerin acquiesces. She hovers as Eleanor stumbles out of bed, and then provides her with a silk robe and slippers once she's confident Eleanor is able to hold her weight, "The ladies' bath is just down the hall. I apologise, but since you still reside in Lord Elrond's healing wing, you haven't access to a private bath. It is communal, but at present, there are no other female patients in residence, so you oughtn't be disturbed. Have you a preference for bath oils?"

"Something subtle," Eleanor replies, "I need not smell like a bouquet. I would just like to be clean."

Aerin nods her acknowledgement, and they stop briefly at the privy so that Eleanor might use the facilities, and then they continue on their way.

When they reach their destination, Aerin helps Eleanor settle comfortably on a bench that borders the communal bathroom. It's something akin to public bathhouses she'd seen during her travels as Eleanor Potter, with a pool-sized tub in the centre of the room, seats along the sides, and a series of carefully placed privacy screens in the sightline of the doors. It uses plumbing, too - as Aerin indicates when she turns some taps to fill it - and Eleanor watches absently as the water steadily rises.

Aerin, meanwhile, busies herself with gathering towels, combs, a selection of inoffensive bath oils for Eleanor's hair and skin. She hums to herself as she does so, a pretty, aimless tune Eleanor doesn't recognise. It lulls her into a near-meditative state though, and it isn't until Aerin lightly touches her hand that Eleanor is brought from her reverie.

"Your bath is ready, my Lady."

"Thank you," Eleanor acknowledges. She disrobes carefully, and descends into the bathtub by way of the available stairs. Her injured arm she keeps out of the water, but the rest of her she scrubs thoroughly, and it feels amazing. More so the thorough wash and comb-through Aerin gives Eleanor's hair, and by the time Eleanor is dry again, dressed in her robe and her hair wrapped in a towel, she feels better than she has since before she'd reached Bree.

"Thank you," Eleanor says as they return to the room she'd awoken in, "I needed that."

"It was no trouble, my Lady," Aerin replies. In her room, she helps Eleanor into her clothes and slippers, and then guides her to the vanity to style her hair with deft, graceful fingers. "I would do this for the Lady Arwen before she sailed for Valinor. She became a dear friend."

"When did she sail?" Eleanor queries. She doesn't know much about Valinor - just that it is west of Middle Earth, that it is no place for mortals, that it is something of a paradise for the Eldar - but she knows enough to know that the elves depart Middle Earth from the Grey Havens.

"Many, many years ago," Aerin replies, "She sailed with her mother, Lady Celebrían to aid the Lady on her journey."

Eleanor doesn't pry for further details. The grief that flashes across Aerin's face is explanation enough, and it's none of her business besides.

"Do you miss her?" Eleanor wonders.

"Lady Arwen and I will meet again, in time," Aerin serenely replies, "Until then, it does me ill to dwell on matters I cannot change."

Aerin twists Eleanor's hair into a deceptively simple up-do that leaves loosely curled locks to frame Eleanor's heart-shaped face. She holds it in place with a borrowed pair of silver combs adorned with sapphires, and then accepts Eleanor's praise and gratitude with a modest - near sheepish - blush.

"Your slippers, my Lady," she offers the shoes in question, and Eleanor slides into them with ease. As with the dress, they fit perfectly, and Eleanor can't fathom how they'd not only managed to obtain her measurements while she was unconscious, but also managed to complete an entire outfit in four days, "And your cloak, as well."

"Thank you," Eleanor says earnestly, "You and your kin have done so very much for me. Is there any way I can repay your kindness?"

"My Lord Elrond says you have done a great service for our people," Aerin says, and fusses over the drape of the cloak over Eleanor's shoulders, "He says that you were grievously wounded in doing so. What we have done… It is the least we can do for your suffering."

Eleanor isn't convinced they need to do anything at all, but she doesn't argue. She squeezes Aerin's slender hands instead, grateful and speechless with it, and Aerin returns the gesture in kind, a sweet, understanding smile on her beautiful, ageless face. And for now, they speak no more on the matter.

-!- -#-

Eleanor's companions are gathered on a balcony that overlooks a garden edged by the high bank of a loud, rushing river. It's a pleasant place, East facing and thus shaded from the evening sun, the air fragrant with the scent of flowers and thriving trees. Aerin leads her to them, but she drifts away before Eleanor can coax her into introductions, and Eleanor is beset upon by four concerned Hobbits before she can protest her handmaiden-turned-guide's disappearing act.

"You look quite lovely, Lady Raven," Merry greets her, as Sam and Frodo fret over her arm, "And recovered as well. I am glad to see you up and about."

"I thank you for the compliment, Master Brandybuck," Eleanor replies, "And indeed, I am recovered. I am told I have Lord Elrond to thank for such a miracle."

"So Gandalf tells us," Pippin opines, "You will get to meet Lord Elrond at the feast tonight, I imagine."

"Indeed," Gandalf contributes, hidden in the shadows on the balcony. He smokes his pipe again, and as Eleanor glances at him, he smiles, "I believe Lord Elrond is rather looking forward to making your acquaintance, my dear."

"The feeling is mutual," Eleanor replies genuinely. SHe's heard such good things about Lord Elrond - from Gandalf and Strider both - and if nothing else, she would like to thank him for her arm, to know about how he'd healed her, and to learn if she should expect any issues from the injury in future. Speaking of Strider, though… "Where is Aragorn?"

"A matter of import called him away," Gandalf explains vaguely, "I am sure he will make an appearance in due time. He has been rather worried about you."

Before Eleanor can reply, they are summoned by a symphony of bells. Gandalf rises to his feet, approaches the cluster of four hobbits and one Númenórean, and offers his elbow to the latter. "It seems dinner has been served. Would you allow me to accompany you, Lady Eleanor?"

Eleanor grasps the Grey Wizard's offered arm with a roll of her eyes but an indulgent smile. "If you insist. Lead on, kind Sir."

And without ado, Gandalf does so.

-!- -#-

 **Author's Note:** I was never going to write a love triangle. I can't stand those. So instead, I just took Arwen out of the equation completely. It was rather easy, actually - she's not necessarily essential to the plot - and ta da. Is anyone surprised?


	8. Chapter 8: The Hall of Fire

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Eight: The Hall of Fire**

Lord Elrond is tall and stately, his handsome face ageless. He's striking - beautiful, even - with his dark hair and fair skin and with his grey eyes framed by thick black lashes. There is a sadness about him - one he bears with admirable grace - and as Gandalf makes introductions in Sindarin, Eleanor is struck momentarily speechless.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Eleanor," Lord Elrond says, also in Sindarin. He clasps one of her hands in both of his, and Eleanor only realises it's too examine her injury when he turns her arm, palm up, to study the bandages. "How does the wound feel? Are you still cold?"

"No," Eleanor denies, "It feels much better. Thank you for healing me."

"I could do nothing less for one of the Ringbearer's protectors," Lord Elrond replies, a charming smile on his face. It isn't until later that she realises that she's discomforted by Frodo's title - in some ways, it's very reminiscent of 'The Chosen One' - but in the meantime, Eleanor's distracted by the splendour of Rivendell, and also of their host. Lord Elrond tucks her hand into his elbow, and guides her towards a seat beside Lord Glorfindel, "Be welcome in Imladris, my Lady."

"Thank you," Eleanor replies as she sits herself in the offered chair. Lord Elrond bypasses Glorfindel in order to sit at the end of the table, bracketed on either side by the blonde, and also by Gandalf.

Glorfindel smiles at her, genial and kind, and they banter lightly about her recovery, the inconveniences of battle wounds, and the effort it will take for Eleanor to regain full use of her arm. Glorfindel is good-natured and jovial, far from the serious, demanding figure she remembers from the road, and Eleanor enjoys his company.

It's such that the feast swiftly passes Eleanor by, in conversation with Glorfindel, with Gandalf and Lord Elrond. She speaks briefly with Frodo, and they listen as an aged dwarf, Gloin of the Lonely Mountain, regales them with wondrous tales of his home and all that the dwarves have accomplished there. Before she knows it, however, it is time to vacate the hall, and Lord Glorfindel waits to escort her elsewhere.

"It is time for this evening's entertainment," Glorfindel explains, "We shall adjourn to the Hall of Fire, whereupon we will be regaled with songs, and tales of days gone by."

"I look forward to hearing them," Eleanor acknowledges.

"The Hall of Fire is usually a place for peace and quiet," Glorfindel informs her, "A place for reflection. On high days, however, it is full of laughter, and life."

"And this evening?" Eleanor queries.

They reach their destination before Glorfindel can answer. It's another hall, sans tables, with an enormous hearth nestled between two intricately carved pillars, and a wide selection of comfortable seats to make use of. Minstrels play soft, pleasant music as Lord Elrond settles in the seat arranged for him, and the rest of them make themselves comfortable in seats near the fire.

Glorfindel guides her to one such armchair, and Eleanor relaxes into it, grateful to be off her feet once more. All of the excitement, it seems, has taken its toll.

"I believe your companions wish to introduce you to someone," Glorfindel says mildly. He glances towards her left, where the four hobbits are gathered around another. Merry and Pippin gesticulate animatedly, between Eleanor and the aged hobbit they're so enthused to see - Bilbo Baggins, presumably - and Eleanor exhales, exhausted by the thought. She smiles at them though, they brighten further, and help the aged hobbit out of his seat.

"I will leave you to it," Glorfindel says. He smiles gently, bows, and squeezes both of her hands in parting, "Please, if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Lord Glorfindel," she replies sincerely. "The hospitality is greatly appreciated."

Glorfindel joins Lord Elrond in another part of the hall, and Eleanor turns in her seat to meet Bilbo Baggins. She makes to rise, to greet him properly, but the hobbits fuss until she's settled back in her seat once more. At that point, Frodo makes the introductions.

"Lady Raven, this is my uncle, Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, this is Raven, the lady we were telling you about."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Baggins," Eleanor greets the aged hobbit, "I've heard many wonderful things from Gandalf."

"The pleasure is all mine, my Lady," Bilbo Baggins replies. He clasps one of her hands in both of his, and squeezes firmly, "Thank you, for protecting my nephew as you have. I fear it is a debt I will never be able to repay, but please know I am exceedingly grateful."

"No thanks is necessary, Master Baggins," she assures him, "I was tasked with protecting Frodo to the best of my ability, so I could do no less."

Mercifully, Bilbo doesn't press the subject. Pippin and Merry pull up a seat for the aged hobbit, Bilbo makes himself comfortable, and he chats quietly about his travels, enquires about her own, and the music the minstrels play is a pleasant backdrop to his unobtrusive company. As Merry and Pippin wander off in pursuit of trouble, Frodo and Sam catch Bilbo up on the happenings in the Shire, and Eleanor listens absently, made drowsy by the warmth of the fire, by her comfortable seat, by the melodic din of Sindarin spoken all around her.

She is brought from her reverie by the approach of Strider. He's cleaned up from the road, his face scrubbed, beard trimmed, hair combed. He's clad in finely tailored clothes of green and brown, and he looks refreshed.

Eleanor is heartened by the sight. It had been a taxing journey, for all of them.

" _Ah, there you are at last, Dúnadain_!" Bilbo greets Strider cheerfully. Eleanor and Aragorn share smiles, before the wayward ranger is pulled into a brief exchange with Frodo and Bilbo. Eleanor listens, but she isn't truly invested in the conversation until Bilbo asks about Strider's whereabouts that evening.

" _Where have you been, my friend? Why weren't you at the feast?_ "

" _Ella dan and Elrohir have returned from the wilds unlooked for, and they had tidings I wished to hear at once._ "

" _Well, my dear fellow, now you've heard the news, can't you spare me a moment? I want your help in something urgent. Elrond says this song of mine is to be finished before the end of this evening, and I am stuck. Let's go off into a corner and polish it up!_ "

Aragorn indulges Bilbo, and Eleanor turns her gaze to the merrily crackling fire. She listens to the music, content in her solitude as the pleasant atmosphere settles over her, and it isn't until Strider appears in front of her once more that Eleanor blinks from the reverie she'd been dragged under.

"You look well," she greets him quietly. Frodo looks lost in a waking dream, Sam's already fast asleep, and the elves surrounding them are focused intently on the music. "Rested."

"As do you," Strider acknowledges. He reaches for her arm, studies the bandage intently, and then returns her wrist to her lap, "I am glad you have recovered. How do you find fair Imladris?"

"It is beautiful," Eleanor replies, "Though I confess, I've not seen much of it."

"We will have to rectify that," Aragorn acknowledges, "There is a council tomorrow morning, but there will be time for you to explore afterwards, I am sure."

"I look forward to it," Eleanor says, and quickly smothers a yawn behind her hand, "Though now, perhaps I should retire for the evening."

"Of course," Aragorn acknowledges. He offers a hand to help her to her feet, "Shall I show you to your rooms?"

"Please," she laughs, rueful, "I'm rather turned around, I'm afraid."

They leave the Hall of Fire with little fanfare, and with Eleanor's hand tucked into Aragorn's elbow, he leads the way towards the room she's been granted for her stay. On the walk, he speaks of his childhood as a fosterling of Lord Elrond, tells her of the brothers he'd found in Lord Elrond's twin sons, of the mischief they'd caused and encountered in Aragorn's youth. It's obvious Rivendell is his home - where his heart lies, as it were - and Eleanor is struck with an inexplicable bout of homesickness, longing for Dol Amroth, and for the family she'd left behind there.

"And here are your rooms," Aragorn slows to a halt in front of the doors in question.

"Thank you," Eleanor acknowledges. She releases her grasp of his arm, and reaches for a door handle, "I'd have never found them on my own."

"It was no problem," Aragorn assures her. He steps back, bows courteously, and bids, "Pleasant dreams, Raven."

"And for you too, Strider."

Eleanor retreats into her room as Strider retreats the way they'd come. She closes the doors, and slowly prepares for bed. She uses magic to switch out her gown for some sleepwear - she'd dismissed Aerin for the evening, and to do so manually (and alone) would be a miracle - and all the while, Eleanor can't wipe the smile off her face for the life of her.

She doesn't even try.


	9. Chapter 9: The Council of Elrond

**Those Who Wander**

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

 **Chapter Nine: The Council of Elrond**

Eleanor wakes, rested and content, and her morning is utterly indulgent. She enjoys a private breakfast of delicate pastries, sliced fruits, and an abundant amount of tea, and then languishes in yet another bath. It's infused with minerals - to promote nourishment and healing of the mind, body, and spirit - and afterwards, she and Aerin talk as she helps Eleanor dress, as she styles her hair, as she guides her towards the balcony where she'd reunited with her companions the evening prior.

"I mustn't stay," Aerin excuses herself with an apologetic smile, "I've no place in such grand meetings."

"Thank you for leading me here," Eleanor acknowledges her with a sincere smile. SHe's not sure of her own place in such notable company - here, she is no Chosen One - but her presence is expected, and if in attending, she can help against the darkness in some way, shape, or form, then who is she to deny her host? "I will see you this evening?"

"You will," Aerin confirms. Then she is gone, and Eleanor is left under the curious gazes of Lord Elrond, Glorfindel, Gloin, of the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo Baggins, Strider, and a number of guests, advisors, and scribes she doesn't recognise.

Eleanor strives not to wilt under their scrutiny, instead approaches her fellow travel companion, and stands wordlessly beside him. He smiles as she does so, makes introductions where necessary, and chats idly with her about the weather, about their respective mornings, their respective misadventures in the wild, and time passes. Eleanor gazes upon the gardens, the mountains in the East, the cloudless blue sky, and her attention is only diverted by the approach of another guest of Imladris.

He's dressed in fine, richly tailored clothes, but they are travel-worn, and he looks as though he's just arrived. He's tall, with dark hair and grey eyes and a face drawn with exhaustion, and Eleanor smiles. He is Boromir, son of Denethor, he is her cousin, and she is heartened to see him safe and (relatively) well.

Boromir notices Eleanor as she notices him, and approaches her once he's observed the appropriate pleasantries with everyone else. Strider introduces himself as a representative of the Dúnadain Rangers, Eleanor doesn't contradict him, and watches as he turns to her instead.

"Cousin," he addresses Eleanor, "I oughtn't be surprised to find you involved in all this madness."

"Trouble finds me," she replies. It's a familiar refrain, brings to mind hijinks with Faramir, dirt-stained petticoats and tousled curls and childish imaginings with her brothers, sisters, and cousins under the disapproving eye of Eleanor's exceedingly traditional governess.

Boromir doesn't bother to suppress the fond, reminiscent smile her words conjure on his face. He'd been a young adult when Eleanor was a child, but life had still been easier then, unburdened by the weight of responsibility, untainted by the shadows of Mordor, and all that which had come with the darkness that encroached from within the Black Gates.

He misses those days.

In truth, Eleanor does, too.

"In this instance, it was in the form of Gandalf. He asked a favour of me, and I could not refuse. What brings you to fair Imladris?"

"I sought council from Lord Elrond," Boromir explains, "He advised I attend this gathering; That I would find the answers I seek here."

"Has something happened?"

Boromir frowns with a furrowed brow, hesitates in answering, and is then spared from doing so as a bell rings nearby. Gandalf and Frodo arrive shortly thereafter, Frodo is introduced to the gathered council, and Lord Elrond makes introductions in turn. They all sit, in the chairs provided, and without ado, the meeting begins. They discuss current affairs throughout Middle Earth, in the South and the East, within the human, dwarven and elven kingdoms, and particularly, the movements of Mordor and the inhabitants therein. Tidings are grim, but ultimately unsurprising - even before Gandalf's request of her, Eleanor had seen and learned enough to realise, to recognise the signs and understand what they meant - and although circumstances are bleak, there is still hope.

" _Strangers from distant lands, you have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so."_

Eleanor frowns, puzzled, and casts her gaze towards Gandalf. He winks, smiles cryptically, and returns his attention to Elrond, who continues speaking. Eleanor follows suit, still baffled - had this council not been planned? - and listens attentively.

" _Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find council for the peril of the world._ "

That said, Lord Elrond proceeds to inform them all of the history behind Sauron, his Rings of Power, and the One Ring in particular, and his audience listens in silence, terrified and enraptured by the story he weaves. He does so with confidence, unfaltering in his facts about the establishment of Gondor and Arnor and the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, and it is easy to forget that Lord Elrond has lived through a great deal of the history he tells - perhaps _all_ of it - and despite her age, despite the life she'd lived before, despite the fact she ought to focus on the situation at hand, Eleanor feels inexplicably, outrageously young.

In a daze, she listens to the exchange between Lord Elrond and Frodo, and Lord Elrond and Boromir, as they speak of events long since forgotten by most of the world, and it isn't until Boromir stands to address the council that Eleanor's focus returns to the porch, to those whom surround her, to the stately cousin beside her.

"Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all it's pride and dignity forgotten. By our valour, the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; And thus alone are peace and freedom maintained in the lands behind us, bulwark of the West. But if the passages of the river shall be won, what then? Yet that hour, maybe, is not now far away."

Eleanor isn't sure of the sound she makes - if she makes one at all - but Boromir's words, spoken with a bleak, desolate sort of certainty, hit her like a blow to the stomach, and she breathes in sharply, her thoughts far from Rivendell. She is aware, of course, that Gondor isn't the only kingdom under attack - the council, if nothing else, has proven as much - but Gondor is her home - the place she'd devoted _years_ to guarding from the shadows - and she has failed. Gondor's armies are faltering, Gondor's people are dying, and as far from home as she has ever been, Eleanor can do nothing to prevent it.

The realisation, such as it is, hurts, but Eleanor sets her shoulders, straightens her spine, and listens as Boromir continues his speech. She can't do much for Gondor from here, but with the skills she brings to the table, she can still be of use to Middle Earth in it's entirety.

As Bilbo, Frodo, and Gandalf regale the council with the most recent history of the One Ring, as Gandalf, Strider, and Legolas of Mirkwood inform them of their travails with the bearer preceding Bilbo, as Gandalf enlightens them about Saruman's fall, as they discuss the fate of the One Ring, Eleanor casts her gaze over those gathered to defend Middle Earth against Mordor, and takes comfort in her earlier reflections: There is always hope.


End file.
